Down the River
by sapphire blue-ruby red roses
Summary: A nation should never fall in love with a human. Why? Because they die. If a nations wishes to die with all their being, can they? Or is it just a wistful dream? warning: attempted suicide, cutting, rating for some of the language and for several scenes


**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia**

**Warning: Unedited, sorry :P have fun with that  
**

Down the River

What drives humans to commit suicide? America had always heard it was depression, death of a close one, abuse, attention, money, family, school, divorce, greed, bullying, beliefs, guilt –the list went on and on- but were those really the driving forces? Was there maybe something that he didn't possess that allowed them to carry out the deed? Was he stronger than them? Were they braver than him? Whatever it was, he wished he had it.

Can a nation commit suicide? He didn't know. He'd wondered and thought about it for years. It wasn't a recent thing. Whenever his economy got bad, the thoughts resurfaced with the suffering of his people, but this time was different.

His economy was good. His political ties were strong. His people were safe and at peace save for a few issues that were of minor concern.

And yet, the question still ran around his head, tempting, telling him everything would get better if he just let it all go. One cut, it taunted, one cut is all it would take. Just one well-placed cut is all it would take.

How long had he been doing this to himself? Since he'd been contemplating suicide? Surely not before his Revolution. The self-harm, yes, starting when Britain had begun putting pressure on him and his people.

Thinking about suicide though, that had come later, after the deaths of all of his human friends, the Great Depression, the Cold War, when his suicide rates had shot high. He'd long since contemplated it, but when had it always been at the forefront of his mind? When had been actually begun to plan it out? When he had started loving a human? When he started feeling something other than hatred and suspicion for another nation? When his people were constantly fearing?

Who could love him? An annoying, ignorant, rude, arrogant, child of a nation who refused any opinion other than his own. Who could return his feelings once they knew who he was? When knew what he did to himself?

A nation's life was a solitary existence. It was only right to live life alone with no returned love. And yet that reassurance did not do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of him, serving only to deepen it.

For once, he wanted to know what it was like, what it was like to feel his life fading from his body. To slip beneath the veil of death, allow it to engulf him, and take him over. Could a nation commit suicide? He knew that nations couldn't die, but if they sincerely wished it, could they kill themselves? He wanted to find out. He wanted to experience what every human eventually experienced.

He wanted to die.

…..

Groaning, America stared down at his hands. His fingers were spotted with blood, his blood. The crimson liquid slipped down the inside of his thighs, warm. It pooled, and stained the white sheets beneath him. The razor he'd used sat beside him like an old friend, glinting invitingly.

The aching pain coiled is his stomach loosened, easing but not disappearing, with the leaking of his blood and pain it brought on. He still didn't understand it, how physical pain could lessen or even destroy the emotional kind. That's what it was, right? Emotional, right? That's the only kind that ever came to his mind.

He leaned against the headboard, reveling in the wonderful empty feeling he always got from cutting. That dissipated slowly leaving guilt and shame in its place.

Why did he do this to himself? It was unnatural, or so he'd always been told by more than one person and nation alike. Normal people did not mutilate their own body to relieve stress or deaden emotional turmoil. Normal people ate or drank or slept excessively to deal with things. Sure, he did all of those things, but they never helped.

With the guilt, he thought of his friends, his family, all of the people he knew, his lovers. He thought of what they would say, how they would say, how they would react.

Disgusted. Disappointed. Ashamed. Outraged. Yes, those would most definitely be how they would feel. He had no idea how he would deal with it if they ever found out.

Sighing, America pulled his shirt off and threw it across the room to join his pants. He placed the razor on the bedside table, switching off the light before snuggling down in the covers. He drifted to sleep with the hope that tomorrow would bring something wonderful.

…..

"Alfred, wake up." A very familiar male voice reached him in his dream, pulling him easily back into reality.

America groaned, pushing at the hands cupping his face. The hands were immediately replaced. Cold lips pressed against his, grounding him in reality. A cold, hard body that was larger than his pressed in next to his, sending a cold chill down his spine.

"Wake up. We can have a morning round, da?"

If there had been any doubt in his mind before about who had slid into bed beside him, it was completely gone now. "No, I don't want to today." Alfred mumbled, turning away from the larger nation.

"Come now, sunflower, don't be stingy," Russia giggled, trailing his hand down America's naked side under the covers, "There's still a couple hours until the meeting. We can go a round, take a shower, and then get breakfast, da?"

"Ivan, I don't want to," America said, forcefully pushing the hand from its journey. Actually, he wouldn't have minded a morning round, but he didn't want Russia finding out. It was already bad enough that he was in his bed, so close to finding out, he didn't want to give him a definite chance by consenting.

"Don't be like that, sunflower," Russia giggled, replacing his hand and running it up America's legs. His fingers shifted higher up his leg, trailing between his legs. He paused as his fingers brushed over the newly scabbed cuts. "Alfred, what are these?" he asked slowly.

Guilt and shame curled through Alfred, filling him to the brim. Heat crawled across his face. He kept his lips tightly closed, refusing to answer.

"Alfred," Russia said a little more sternly. He forcefully pulled the covers from America's fists, throwing it from the bed, and forced open his legs despite his struggle to keep them closed. Though America was strong, Russia was equally, if not, stronger than him.

His eyes traveled over the rough, healing cuts on the inside of his thighs and down to where the pool of blood had dried into a crackly, brown dusty substance. "Alfred, what is this?"

"What do you think?" America snapped, slipping his hands over his face. He already knew that he couldn't cover up the shame of his self-harm so he may as well try to cover something up.

Russia watched his lover for a long, silent moment, his finger gently tracing the smooth yet slightly raised scars that marred the inside of America's thighs. They stopped halfway down his thighs leaving many to be caressed.

America jumped letting out a "manly" squeak as Russia trailed his lips softly along one of the scabbing cuts, his tongue flicking out to carefully lick it. "What are you doing?!" America shouted, a dark blush racing across his cheeks.

Ignoring his question, Russia asked one of his own. "Why didn't you ask for help?"

"Why? Because I'm ashamed I've been doing this for so long? How could I ask anyone for help? I'm the hero! I don't need help."

Russia glanced up at his lover, only pausing in his ministrations long enough to murmur, "Even heroes ask for help sometimes."

…..

Grumbling, America slid carefully into his seat at the table for the World Meeting. He was hosting it this time, but he already knew that Germany would take over. Surprisingly today, he didn't mind his taking over his job.

Despite his carefulness to cause himself as little pain as possible, his backside throbbed angrily as him as it made contact with the padding of his chair. "One round" his sore ass. He was going to kick Russia in the balls the next chance he got. That or he'd withhold sex from him for the next month.

Russia was grinning happily, sitting in the seat next to him. The grin wasn't the type of fake one he put on for the rest of the world. It was the satisfied grin that only America was ever able to pull out of him.

"America, where are England and France?" Germany snapped the moment the clock struck 10:30. He glared over at America who had his head in his arms, ignoring the chattering countries around him.

He glared up at Germany, his mouth pressing into a hard line. "I don't fucking know. I'm not their mother or their caretaker. They are grow men, and go where they want to without having to check in with me," he spat irately, the words coming out sharper and more vulgar than he'd meant them too, but he couldn't care less.

Germany was taken aback by his attitude. "I was not suggesting that," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "I was simply suggesting that maybe you could try contacting them since you are hosting this meeting."

"Maybe you should try their cells since you're the one who wants them here. I'm not running the meeting anyway. You always take it over, so might as well take on the responsibility of making sure everyone gets here," America shot back, standing from his seat too quickly. Pain shot through his backside, hitting his spine like an electric shock. He froze making a pained face.

Indignation rose in Germany. He was opening his mouth to shout something back at the irritating man, but the doors cut him off. They flung open revealing a hammered France and a sagging England dragging their bags behind him and France leaning heavily on him.

"Sorry about our lateness, the frog had too much to drink on the flight over," England began, his statement accented by France giving a loud, obviously drunk hiccup, "Then it took for bloody ever to get through customs. America, your airports suck."

The countries seated around the table winced, their eyes cautiously turning to America's face which was hard with annoyance. "News flash, you limey bastard, everybody's airport sucks. It's the nature of airports. If you are going to complain maybe you should leave earlier than at the last moment, or I don't know, take a private jet or something." He grumbled angrily under his breath, stalking towards the open door.

"America!" France shouted drunkenly, flying off of England on onto America instead. His hands immediately started exploring, clumsily popping the buttons on America's shirt to push his hands against the American's skin. "Strip with me!"

"No! Get off of me, France!" America growled, shoving at France's hands.

"Noooooo, get naked with me, mon ami. Make l'amour with me." He hands pulled from America's grip, popping the button on his jeans and pulling down his zipper in moments. "I want your body."

His face beginning to involuntarily burn a bright red, America grabbed the drunken Frenchman's wrists in a bruising grip, his anger rising. France's wrists were slick though, and he twisted out of America's grip, latching onto his pants.

"France, do not do that. You will not enjoy the results of your actions," Russia spoke up, standing from his seat and glaring at the Frenchman. He started towards them, but it was already too late.

"Naked!" France cried happily, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of the American's pants, missing the elastic waistband of his briefs pressed close to his body, and jerked them down. "Yay!"

America's scars were visibly plain as day as if they were black lines on white paper. Mortification flooded him, turning his face, ears, and the back of his neck lobster red. Tears burned in the back of his eyes, threatening to spill forward. He jerked his pants back up, but it was already too late, the whole room had seen the scars. Even France had paused in his quest for nudity to stare at the scars covering the inside of America's thighs.

"Lad, are those…" England had begun his voice shocked, incredulous, and even worse, a bit disappointed. He stared at the place where the scars had disappeared under fabric, unable to for words.

Hurt, guilt and shame speared America with that first mutter. Those first words and the emotions behind them were enough to bring his tears to the brink of spilling. He turned his eyes just enough to catch the expressions of the others around the room.

It was just as he feared. They were reacting the exact way he'd expected. Expressions ranged between disgusted, disappointed, ashamed, outraged, and confusions seemed to be the emotion universal in every expression.

Hot tears slipped down his face. He didn't stay to hear their empty words. He ran from the room without a second glance, only stopping when he was more than ten blocks from the hotel he'd been hosting the meeting at. He took the time for gathering his breath to call a cab and rub at the tears still slipping down his face. He didn't feel in this city. He felt like everyone knew his dirty little secret, and were disgusted by him.

He needed to be with someone who knew and accepted him, and he knew just the person.

…..

America stared down at the little velvet box clasped between his hands. His phone sat tauntingly on the table in front of him, telling him, "_Call her. Meet her. You know she's finally back. Ask her._"

"Shut up, California, no one needs your damn advice on how to pop the question," he snapped at his phone earning suspicious glances from passersby and other patrons around him. He looked around surreptitiously, shrinking in on himself and sinking down in his chair.

He glared at the small piece of technology, wishing he could break it in half, but know it was his only connection to Rose, the human woman he'd been lucky enough to fall in love with. Rose had been on a business outing the entire year across seas. He hadn't been able to visit her because his boss had found out and had kept him from going to Spain the entire year. He hadn't even been able to sneak away during a World Meeting, and they hadn't held any at Spain's place per his boss' request. "_Stupid dick_," he thought bitterly, then remember again, "_But she's back now_."

Nerves shot through him. "Fine, I'll call her," he muttered quietly when the phone kept taunting him.

Gingerly picking up the phone, treating it like a poisonous snake, America dialed Rose's number, clutching the little velvet box tighter in his hand. The phone rang once… twice… thr- "Hello?" the heart achingly familiar voice asked, her voice cheerful as ever, "Alfred, is that you? Are you are in my area?" He could clearly hear the grin in her voice.

An easy smile spread across America's face. His nerves calmed slightly, jumping only tiny baby jumps. "Yeah, it's me. Are you able to come down to the café?"

"O-of course! Of course I can! I'll be there in ten minutes, I have to drop someone off with my neighbor, and then I'll be there in a jiffy," she said, excitement flooding her voice. In his minds' eye, he could see her hopping around like a rabbit, the way she does when she gets excited. She'd be pulling on boots and the cardigan with wings on the back that he'd gotten her two Christmases ago. "Aren't you supposed to be at a World Meeting today? I thought I read something about that in the paper today."

America's face pinched. He really didn't want to think about that short ten minutes he'd spent at the meeting. "I skipped. They were all being dicks today, so I didn't want to stay." He shrugged even though he knew she couldn't see him.

"Oh you bad man, you're not supposed to do things like that," she teased, "Did your 'hips' hurt from Russia catching you before the meeting and that's why you were irritated?"

She'd known about Russia even before they had started seeing each other. She was perfectly fine with it. She actually seemed to enjoy their relationship more than she should have. She even took pleasure in teasing him about it most days. An added bonus was that she hadn't been intimidated by that tall Russian who was more than a head taller than her. Even more interesting, she'd made friends with Russia.

"Oh, you see right through me don't you?" he joked, rolling his eyes.

She laughed. "You'll have to tell me all about any new developments." A door slammed in the background and a baby cried. "I'm dropping her off right now. I'll talk to you in a wee bit!"

The phone went dead. America started down at California still held in his hand, his grin widening into a huge smile. Just hearing her talk was shoving all the bad things that had happened during the meeting to the back of his mind. He didn't realize how much he'd missed her mixture of different accents and out-of-date words.

Sitting up in his seat, he leaned his head back, letting his eyes slide shut. The sounds of the town surrounded him. Shoes tapping against cement and stone echoed off the buildings. Voices filtered through the air, snatches of conversations becoming clear before quickly fading away. He wasn't interested in any of the passersby's footsteps or voices, he was focusing, listening for Rose's footsteps and voice.

He was quickly rewarded with the quick, light tap of her boots on the pavement. He jumped from his chair in time to catch Rose as she catapulted herself into his arms. Their lips pressed together, and as if it was their first time kissing, sparks flew.

"It's so great to see you again!" she shouted, hugging America's neck tightly, "It's been way far too long!"

"Yes," America agreed, holding her tightly against his chest so that her feet hovered off the ground, "I missed you so much." He let her feet touch solid ground, but nuzzled his nose into Rose's curly brunette hair.

Rose giggled, not minding the show of affection at all. If it were possible, she'd be content to just stay there forever, but they both had obligations. Something small and sharp in America's hand stabbed her in the shoulder. "What have you go in your hand, Al? It's poking me in the shoulder," she complained lightly, pulling back in time to see the flare of America's cheeks and slip the package quickly behind his back.

America swallowed, letting out a slow stream of air. Sitting Rose down, he stood in front of her for a long moment before shakily getting down on one knew. He looked up at her almost pleadingly, pulling the small velvet box from behind his back. "Rose Elks, will you do the honors of marrying me?" he asked his voice cracking at the end. He pulled the lid back to reveal a small golden ring that had sapphires inlaid into the metal instead of diamonds. He'd remembered when buying the ring that Rose had said she disliked diamonds.

Rose was speechless. Her jaw slowly made its way to the floor as she stared between America and the ring. Was this really happening to her? She sure hoped so.

A slow grin started to split across her face when she saw the fear that had been present before his proposal made a full frontal assault on America when her answer was slow coming. "Of course I will, silly!" she shouted happily, suddenly throwing her into the waiting American's arms.

America let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. When you didn't respond, I thought you were going to say no," he confessed, grinning lopsidedly at her.

"I could never say no to you. You're too precious to me," she told him, tapping him on the nose playfully before swooping in to steal a kiss.

…..

Rose snuggled closer to America, huddled in his bomber jacket against the cold. They walked leisurely towards her house, their pace slow and carefree. The twilight was silent around them, only the rustle of their clothes and taps of their shoes.

Rose smiled happily, resting her head on his shoulder. "Sorry I can't go back to your place tonight. I have a lot of unpacking to do, clothes to wash, and there's someone I have to take care of here," she said as they came to a stop in front of her door. She pulled from his embrace, moving to stand in front of him while still holding his hand.

"That's okay. You did enough by just listening to me today," he told her, running gentle fingers down her face, "And there is always tomorrow. Anyways, you said you had a surprise for me."

Rose startled, her eyes going wide. She'd forgotten that she had to surprise him. She'd forgotten to call her neighbor. "Yes, tomorrow. Come over tomorrow. Your surprise will be ready tomorrow. Ditch that meeting you don't want to go to anyway," she said, grinning.

"What else would I be doing?" he asked with a wry smile, "My boss is watching my house and I am sure as hell not going to that meeting. Those jackasses can stew in the mess they've created, and I'm sure Ivan and maybe even Mattie with smash in some skulls on my part."

Rose let out a laugh, curling her fingers tightly around America's. "Canada too? You have many people who love you." She'd managed to make close friends with Canada over several surprise visits with America to his house.

America chuckled. "No, Mattie is family so that implies obligation, and Ivan is infatuated. You are the only one who loves me." He smiled warmly.

"I didn't even know you knew that word," Rose teased, pushing her fingers around his neck and into his hair, pulling his foreword, "And don't say that about them. They love you too even if you don't want to admit it." She pressed her lips to his, her smiled all too obvious. "Now, I have to get back to work unpacking my belongings, and you need to go make sure Russia and Mattie don't kill anyone."

America sighed. "But I don't want to. I want to stay here and kiss you all night," he said, pressing his lips to hers again.

Rose pulled back, laughing again. "No, no. You can't peak at your surprise and we have stuff to do. You can come back over and stay here tomorrow night when everything's been sorted out," she told him, patting him on the cheek, kissing his one more time, and then pulling her hand free to walk up the steps to her house.

"Promise?" America asked, his hand already reaching for his phone, but his eyes focused on the woman in front of him.

She cocked her head to the side cutely. "Of course. Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

His smile widened. "No," he said, waiting until she'd made it into her house to start walking down the street.

A gunshot rang through the air. America's heart thudded to a stop, and dread overtook him. He sprinted back to her house as fast as he could, breaking down the solid wood door with a single frantic kick.

"Rose!" he shouted as he stormed into her home, running from room to room in search of the woman. He found her in the living room splayed on the floor. A man wearing a ski mask and holding a smoking gun crouched next to her, patting her down for any valuables.

Rage rose in America like a rocket. "Get away from her," he bellowed, running towards the man and slamming his leg with all his might into the man's ribs. The satisfying sound of breaking bones filled the air around them. The man went flying, crashing into and through the double, French doors that served as the back doors. He crumpled on the grass, going still once he'd come to a complete stop.

Ignoring the hurt man outside, America dropped to his knees beside Rose, his eyes going wide as he took in all of the blood that pooled under her. "D-don't worry. You're going to be alright. Help is going to come, and they're going to patch you up. Good as new," he reassured as he gingerly lifted the woman into his arms.

Blood poured from a gunshot to the middle of her chest, soaking his arm and legs. It pooled in the V that her torso and legs made. She was already going pale, blood leaking from her as readily as the vibrant life that she had possessed.

She lifted a shaky hand, pressing it to his cheek. Something wet slipped down his cheek, he didn't want to think of what it might be. "Don't cry," she murmured, her voice weak as a whisper. She turned her head and coughed. Blood splattered the tan carpet. The crimson liquid slipped from the corner of her mouth down her chin. "I'll be fine."

"Promise me then. Promise me you'll be fine. You can't break a promise to me," he told her, his body shuddering with the force to keep himself from letting go of the sobs that wanted to explode from him.

Rose didn't say anything. She stared into his face, memorizing for the last time the features that she had memorized so many times before. "Remember to take care of her," she murmured, pressing her blood splattered lips to his.

Her hand slid from his face as her last breath shuddered past her lips. She went limp in his arms, and her head fell back against his shoulder.

Shock radiated through him. America, eyes wide, stared down at Rose. "R-Rose? Rose, come on, wake up. Y-you're g-going to be f-fine. Rose? Please Rose, wake up," he pleaded, shaking her gently as if trying to rouse her from sleep, "Rose? Rose. Oh God, Rose no. Please wake up, Rose. Rose!" An anguished scream mixed with a sob ripped up his throat as the full force of the scene hit him. He buried his face in her shoulder, his anguish loud and contagious.

…..

Alfred stared unseeingly down at this blood stained hands that were now empty of the body of the woman he had loved. He could still feel her warmth though, seeping into his clothes one last time. The scent of roses and vanilla, Rose's scent, clung to him and his clothes, unwilling to be overpowered by the acrid scent of her own blood.

Just like her personality.

The cabby taking him home chattered relentlessly in front of him, keeping up a running commentary, glancing back worriedly at him every few seconds. He maneuvered skillfully through the city, his voice a low drone in America's ears. He stared out the window, tuning out the drone easily.

"Hey, buddy, we're here," the cabby called back to him in a thick New York accent, but he was kind.

America looked up at his home, dazed. "Oh," he mumbled, pulling out his wallet as he got out of the car.

"Don't worry about it," the man told him as he struggled to remember how to count the bills in his wallet, "Just pay me back next time we meet. My name is Jared, remember that so you can do that." The man smiled as he began slowly pulling away from the curb.

"Oh, thank you," America called. Needing direction, America ordered his brain one step at a time on what to do. _Turn around. Walk up the steps. Unlock the door. Open the door. Close the door. Lock it. Go upstairs. _He moved mechanically, shedding his sullied clothes and the way to his bathroom.

The maniacal glint of the razor still on his bedside table caught his eye in the light of the streetlight that filtered through a small slit in his curtains. It was the only light in the room. All other lights had remained off. He stared at the weapon, his mind moving sluggishly to the conclusion that he'd already thought of.

_I can still be with her. Maybe, just maybe, I can still be with her_, he thought hopefully, snatching up the dangerous object. His mind whirred with possibility. The soft click of the door and the lock sliding into place were the best sounds he'd heard since Rose had spoken to him the first time they'd met. For no apparent reason, he turned the water on as hot as it would go, plugging the tub.

Steam quickly filled the room, fogging up the mirror and the window. A memory that could never be forgotten filtered into his mind as the steam filtered into his lungs. _Rose gave him a suggestive grin from her Victorian style tub, one of the ones that weighed about half a ton. Her hair was piled atop her head in a loose bun, cocoa strands falling into her face. She waved a hand over the bubble surface of the water, inviting his to join her, to talk with her. She was so beautiful sitting there naked without shame, opening herself up to him._

America shook his head, pulling what he was planning to the forefront of his mind, but allowing the memories to continue playing through in the back of his mind. He'd heard that when people were going to do this, they were supposed to leave a note, that they were supposed to feel scared and hesitant, but he felt nothing of the sort. He didn't want to leave a note, he didn't think people would understand anyway. He didn't feel scared and he wasn't hesitant. He just wanted.

Breathing out slowly, America lowered himself to the bathroom floor, leaning against the tub. He stared at the opposite wall to him, the vision of Rose the only thing he could see. "I'll be with you soon, Rose." He spoke softly, his voice barely audible to even his ears over the sound of the running water.

He only hesitated a moment, the blade hovering horizontally over his wrist before his flipped it vertically before dipping the razor deep into his wrist -deep enough that even if someone did find him it wouldn't make any difference, deep enough that he could have sworn he struck bone- and dragged it towards him until he reached the crook of his arm.

The pain was explosive and immediate as the blood that dripped to the blue bathmat underneath him, staining it a deep purple. He took just a moment to revel in the raw agony this provided before repeating the process on his other arm. His hands shook. The razor clattered to the tiles.

America sighed contentedly, letting his eyes drift shut as his arms dropped to his sides and the tension left his body. "This is the end," he sighed.

…..

Russia seethed silently, his ire palpable to the entire room. The purple aura surrounding him had yet to dissipate since the incident earlier that day. He glared daggers at every occupant in the room, his poisonous flaming daggers reserved for France specifically. He wore an angry scowl instead of his usual childish grin.

A quieter, less prominent wave of anger radiated underneath the Russian's overwhelming rage. It seemed to have no source of any kind just filling every corner of the room. To some, it seemed more dangerous than the obvious anger of the Russian.

"Alright, that will wrap our meeting up for today. Be sure to be here at the same time as this morning tomorrow so we can continue," Germany said, tapping his papers on the tabletop, and standing from his seat.

The other nations followed eagerly, ready to bolt from the room, but an angry shout stopped them dead in their tracks. "What the fuck is wrong with all of you?!" the voice shouted, ringing through the room with all the rage of a mother bear protecting her cubs.

It wasn't so much the words that stopped the nations, but who had said it and how loudly it had been spoken. Slowly, as one, the group turned to find an irrefutably visible Canada boiling with the rage from the undercurrent. He glared at each nation in turn, skipping over Italy because the nation had been preoccupied during the fiasco at the start of the meeting.

"What do you mean, Canada? We didn't do anything," Romano asked, indignation spiking through his voice at the accusation. Several of the other countries nodded their head and made noises of agreement. Most of the others though were staring down at their feet, their ears and cheeks coloring with shame of knowing what they'd done so wrong.

"Bull shit!" Canada shot back, his glare landing on Switzerland, "You guys may not have physically done something to make the situation, but you sure as hell did do something."

"Then enlighten us all, Canada. What exactly did we do?" Denmark asked, glaring daggers at the smaller country.

Canada was silent for a long moment, hoping they would come to the answer themselves, but that didn't seem like that would happen, not with people who thought themselves to be right. "Your expressions, the emotions you showed him when you found out."

"What do you mean, mon cheri?" France asked, finally speaking up for the first time since the incident. He stared up at his "son", his head clutched in his hands. It felt as if his brain was trying to beat itself to death against the inside of his skull.

Canada let out a noise of aggravation. "Imbeciles. Emotional retarded jackwads. Ignoramuses. God, how have I worked with you people for so long?" he growled, staring up at the ceiling.

"Your expressions," he said slowly, glaring at the surrounding countries, "You know, the things on your face that your muscles make to show what emotions you are feeling. Do you know what you were showing Al? No? You were showing him that you were revolted. You were showing him that you were mortified of him. You showed him incredulity, horror, repulsion. The one thing you did not show him was compassion and understanding. Most of you are close friends or just friends of Al, at the very least you are people he has interacted with before. You know what that must have done to him, you idiotic jackasses?" He received surprised stared, wide eyes and open mouths.

"And how exactly did that affect him?" Romania asked, his arms crossed over his chest in defiance.

"Fuck me!" Canada shouted incredulously, throwing his hands into the air and turning away from the group, "You're fucking impossible. Those of you who don't understand yet are fucking impossible! I give up on you! You're just a bunch of fucking prick who can't think past what affects them!" He shouted, more like screamed and at the normal volume for most people as well. "I hate all of you! I don't want to live on this country anymore. If I could die, I'd be doing that right now!" As Canada continued his rant to the surprise of the other countries, except for Russia it seemed, Russia swiftly swooped in to finish Canada's angry rant and start in on his own. He slammed his silver pipe down on the table in front of them as a well-known threat.

Canada's phone rang only moments later, not causing Russia to pause in his angry and hostile lecture. He answered it without looking at the caller ID, "Hello? Alfred, is that you?"

"Um, no, sir. I am sorry. Am I speaking to Matthew Williams perhaps?" a man on the other end asked, his voice sounding official, tired and somber.

"Yes, this is him."

"I am calling on behalf of your twin, Alfred Jones."

"Y-yes! What is it? Has something happened? Is he hurt? Is he alright? Where can I find him" Canada asked eagerly. Behind him, Russia went quiet, listening to the conversation while staring down the murmuring nations. Their shoulders were hunched in defeat and shame, refusing to look at either of the nations.

The man on the other end was silent for a moment. He sighed deeply and Canada could see him pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, not exactly. He wasn't hurt, but someone he was with… well, she was shot and died. We've questioned him already, and apprehended the culprit. He went home a little while ago saying that he would call someone, but obviously, he didn't."

It was Canada's turn to be quiet. "He went home?" he said slowly, letting the information sink in piece by piece, "A woman died?" His voice shook as he asked his last question. "Is her name Rose Elks?"

The rustling of papers came over the speaker. "Yes. He seemed pretty traumatized by the event. I suggest that you check on him. People in this situation… sometimes they… Well, I think it would be a good idea for someone to go check on him."

"Thank you, I definitely will," Canada said, ending the call. He swung around, staring wide-eyed at Russia. "Rose, she's dead. America, he's gone home." With that he bolted from the room, Russia on his heels, leaving bewildered nations behind. France and England glanced at each other before scrambling after the other two nations.

Italy stared after him before looking down at his hands. The meeting room was silent, no one willing to say anything after the lectures they'd just been given. Italy was the first to speak up, still staring sadly down at his hands. "I'm mortified to know you guys at the moment," he murmured quietly in a voice so unlike his own, not waiting for even Germany to respond before he hurried after the others.

The others, now completely dumbstruck, stared after the little nations, their minds reeling.

…..

The other nations made it to America's house in record time. They stood outside the house, a strange, foreboding air lurking over the home. "Something's wrong," Canada murmured as he pounded on the door for the third time since arriving, "I don't know what it is, but something is very, very wrong."

"Does anyone else hear water running?" England asked. They silenced, listening to the groan of the pipes in the walls of the house as water rushed through them.

"Maybe he's taking a shower?" Italy suggested though by the tone of his voice, he didn't believe himself.

"No," Canada and Russia said together, searching around the door and under the items next to the door, looking for the spare key they knew he always kept hidden around there. Russia had used it just that morning.

"Here it is," Russia said, immediately shoving it into the lock. The moment the door was open, he rushed to the bedroom, slamming through the door. He glanced around, taking in the scattering of blood soaked clothing before moving to the bathroom door. Steam rose from under the door. "America, open the door!" he called, all pretense of childishness gone from his voice.

There was no answer, not even the slightest sloshing of water as he moved around in the tub. The only sound that greeted them was the splashing of more water into the tub. It sounded as if it were overflowing.

Russia and Canada glanced at each other, horror slowly beginning to creep over all of them. It rushed over the pair, crashing into them.

"Alfred, open this door!" Russia ordered banging on the door enough to rattle it in its frame, but America had invested in a very sturdy door that would actually take force from either of them to kick in. It was only a few notches away from being steel plated.

"Al, please! Open the door! Don't do anything drastic! Please, Alfred! Please open the door!" Canada pleaded, flinging himself against the door and banging his small fists against the solid door.

Once again, silence of the human kind greeted them.

Terror washed over the group. They began shouting and calling for the American. Russia kicked at the door, rearing back as far as his could before solidly slamming his foot just above the doorknob.

"ебать, что она не откроет," he snarled under his breath in Russian as his fourth attempt at breaking the lock failed. Putting all of his fear and anger into one last kick, the doorjamb splintered. The door flew open, crashing against the wall. The sight that greeted them had them screaming America's name.

Blood covered the once white tiles, staining them. His pants and the bathmat had long since been soaked. His skin was pale. The crimson liquid continued to leak from the slashes he had made in his arms.

"Call an ambulance!" Canada shouted back at the other three as he rushed to his brother's side where Russia was already kneeling, "Alfred, oh God, Alfred!" Even though they all knew nations couldn't die, the scene was so real and the situation so alien, they wondered if that was a lie.

Russia pulled the smaller teen into his arms, already wrapping towels tightly around the American's arms. They were quickly becoming saturated just like Russia's crème colored coat. He jumped to his feet, and ran to the front to meet the ambulance.

Sirens wailed in the distance, splitting the relatively quiet night for the second time.

…..

Pain radiated up America's arms, piercing through his shoulders, back, and even striking his heart. Everything was black. His body was heavy. Whispers reached him from far away. He'd been dreaming of something, something terrible. He couldn't recall. The pain was nearly unbearable, but he couldn't seem to find his vocal cords.

_Rose. I was dreaming that Rose died_, he thought. His hard squeezed painfully. Why was it doing that? God, why was everything so hot? Why did the back of his knee and arms itch?

Finally regaining control of his vocal cords, America let out a raspy groan. Somewhere, someone shushed the whispers, and a baby made contented noises in their sleep.

"Are you with us again, lad?" someone who sounded suspiciously like England asked.

A hand rested in the knee that didn't have the itching sensation behind it wasn't lifted in the air followed by Canada's voice. "Alfred, if you can hear us open your eyes. Please."

America grumbled his displeasure, searching for the muscles to work his eyelids. The thin pieces of flesh felt like they weighed a ton, pressing down on his eyes. He worked at the action for a long, silent moment before he finally succeeded in pulling them open.

He was not in his bed or sleeping in the middle of the meeting like he'd expected. Instead, he was in a white, sterile room surrounded by many of the other nations he was close to. The stared at him anxiously ignoring the gawkers both sharing the room in beds beside him and standing outside of the room as staff.

"What's going on? Why are you all here?" he rasped, staring around at all the faces of his friends and colleagues, "Why is it so hot and why does my knee itch so damn bad?"

Canada and England who were sitting on the bed beside him glanced at each other. Canada was the one to respond. "Al, you're in the hospital. You've been here for the past two days. They've been trying to replenish the blood you lost from your… suicide attempt," he explained, his face screwing up at if her were the one in pain when he said the last to words.

"My…" he began to say when the memories suddenly flooded back. Rose, shot. Rose dying it his arms. Him going home. Him cutting deep into his arms, trying to achieve what was so impossible for nations to do. "W-why did you stop me? Why didn't you let me die?! I don't want to be here!" he shouted at the Canadian angrily, his anger worse with the rasp of his voice.

Tears formed in his brother's eyes. "Because we didn't want you to die, you selfish ass! Rose wouldn't want you to kill yourself because she's gone!" Canada shouted back at a normal person's volume, his anger and grief pushing his past his normal volume, "You don't think that I'm miserable because of Rose's death too? We –Russia and I- all feel her loss too! She was our friend too, but we're not going to kill ourselves because she died! She wouldn't want that! You of all people should know that!"

Anger rose in America, mixing with his sorrow. "You don't understand, Mattie! It wasn't the same for you two! I-I loved her! I-I asked her to marry me. I was going to marry her. She died in my arms! It's not the same for you!" he shouted back.

Behind the circle of other nations around his bed, a baby started crying softly. Soft spoken Russian was immediately spoken, soothing the small voice.

His other emotions ebbing, America looked through the crowd trying to catch a glimpse of the child that had made the noise. "Was that a baby?" he asked slowly, his voice low.

"Da," Russia answered, stepping through the circle, a bundle nestled in his large arms, so small that it didn't even completely fill his arms, "She's right here."

Confusion engulfed all of America's other emotions just then as he stared down into the face of a baby girl. She blinked sleepily up at him with clear, sky blue eyes. He glanced up at Russia. "Why do you have a baby?"

Russia didn't hesitate when he answered with a simple, "She's your and Rose's daughter."

America let out a shaky laugh that quickly died as he realized that the Russian wasn't joking. "Y-you've got to be kidding me, right? Rose and I… we never had a kid. Rose was never pregnant. How can that be our daughter?"

"It's true, they did a paternity test and we got her birth certificate," Spain spoke up, not looking at the teen on the bed, "Rose gave birth while still at my home. I saw her a couple times before the birth. She said she'd gotten pregnant before coming over."

America's insides shuddered. Tears burned in the back of his eyes as he looked down at the sleeping baby girl still cradled in Russia's arms. "So, that's what she meant when she… Oh God, I almost…" He couldn't finish his sentence, his throat growing thick. He leaned back against his pillows pressing his heavily bandaged arms over his eyes, unable to stop the heaving sobs from bubbling up from his chest.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeated through his sobs, anything else that he might have said sticking in his throat.

…..

"Mom, why is Dad just sitting there staring out the window? I tried to talk to him, but he ignored me," a young girl of about twelve-years-old asked Russia a little indignantly. She huffed, crossing her arms over her thin, slowly developing chest. "I wanted him to listen to me play the new piece I learned on the piano." She had yet to hit a growth spurt so she only rose to just over his waist.

Russia glanced down at his adoptive daughter trying to think of a good way to explain to her what was wrong with America. Sighing, he crouched in from of her, turning her gently to face him. "He is not doing it on purpose. Sometimes, he just drifts off into his own memory. It is hard to bring him back, and sometimes it's best to just let him come back on his own," he stared, his eyes drifting to rest on the America.

He was sitting in the window seat with the shades pulled up, a blanket pulled around his shoulders. The sleeve of his T-shirt had shifted up revealing the long, jagged scar stretching the length of his arm. An identical scar on his other arm was covered by the blanket. He stared out into the cold October evening, watching the orange, red, and gold leaves drifting on soft currents of air to the already covered lawn. His eyes were unmoving and almost glassy.

"Why does he do it then?" she asked, her eyes hurt and concerned for her father.

"Lily, when you were not even a year old, something very terrible happened to your mother. She died in your dad's arms. Sometimes, those memories resurface and send him into a state that you see now. Those memories torture him even twelve years later." Russia sighed, watching his lover woefully.

Lily frowned deeply, looking so much like her father. "Why does he let them do that to him? He's a hero! Can't he just tell them to go away?"

Russia shook his head. He didn't know how to explain this to a tween who had yet to even hold hands with a boy. Someone with so much inexperience couldn't possibly understand, but he hoped that one day she would. "You'll understand when you're older, but just like very happy memories don't fade, very sad memories don't fade either, and I'm not entirely sure he wants to forget them." The last part of his explanation was quieter as if speaking the words too loudly would disrupt the flow of things.

"Why?"

"So that he won't make the same mistake again, and will be able to protect you forever."

The sound of Alfred's voice suddenly made them jump. "Hey, what are you two whispering about so conspiratorially over there?" he shot at them giving them a raised eyebrow and expectant look. Absently, he rubbed his fingers over the scars stretching up his arms, but his expression remained the same.

"Just how we're going to leave you here and go to Canada's house by ourselves if you don't get up soon," Russia replied easily, his usual, now more natural smile widening his lips. He leaned down next to America's ear, whispering, "We were planning on eating all of the pie so that there was none left for you."

America gasped in true horror, spinning on his lover. "That is uncalled for!" he shouted, already dashing up the stairs to pull on more suitable clothing. Russia followed close behind him, only pausing to look back at Lily and press a finger to his lips.

Lily nodded her understanding, miming zipping her lips and throwing away the key. She watched her mother disappear up the stairs after her father. Wandering over to the piano, she plucked out a soft, sweet tune silently hoping that one day that her father could get over the terrible memories of her biological mother, and that one day she could have the same type of relationship her parents had.

"**ебать, что она не откроет" means "fuck, it won't open". I'm sorry if the translation is terrible. I used google translate because I have no knowledge of the Russian language, though I wish I did.**

**Anyway, so yeah, um, I really don't know how to explain this except for the fact that I was really feeling the need to write something taboo and I wanted to make someone cry. Not going to lie. I get the perverse sense of accomplishment when I write something sad and am able to make someone cry. Is that weird? I can't really tell anymore. I also find it quite fulfilling when I write about taboo subjects such as suicide and self-harm. Though they aren't as taboo as they probably used to be, people still are skittish around the subjects.**

**Any who, review please. Tell me how I did. Was it boring? Was it interesting? Did it make you cry? Feed the hungry writer within me :D**


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